The Gilded Parasol

The summer I turned seven, we moved to a crumbling Victorian house on the edge of a dying town. My mother called it ‘a fixer-upper with character.’ I called it the place where the wallpaper peeled like dead skin and the stairs groaned even when no one walked on them. My brother, Leo, two years older, claimed the room with the bay window, and I got the one beside his, connected by a shared bathroom that smelled of rust and mothballs.

One morning, with sunlight bleeding through the thin curtains like a wound, I woke to find a woman perched on the edge of my bed. She wore a dress the color of dried blood, and in her gloved hands she held a parasol of black lace, so delicate it seemed spun from shadow. Her face was porcelain pale, her hair the black of a raven’s wing, and her eyes were the unsettling amber of a cat watching prey. She didn’t move, just tilted her head and smiled with too-white teeth. Before I could blink, she was gone, leaving only a faint scent of violets and rot.

I screamed, and Leo burst in, his phone still in his hand. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, his eyes scanning the empty room. I pointed at the spot where the woman had sat, but of course, there was nothing. He rolled his eyes and muttered something about nightmares, then went back to his game. I didn’t tell him what I saw. I knew he wouldn’t believe me.

That was the first time I saw the Gilded Parasol. But it wasn’t the last. Over the following weeks, I caught glimpses of her in mirrors, in the dark reflection of the hallway window, in the corner of my eye when I turned too fast. She never spoke, never moved, just watched with that predatory smile. And I noticed that whenever she appeared, the house felt colder, and the shadows seemed to stretch longer.

Then, one night, I heard it: a soft, rhythmic scratching from the attic above my room, like fingernails dragging across wood. Leo was at a sleepover, and my parents were downstairs arguing about bills. I lay in my bed, frozen, listening to the sound grow closer. The scratching stopped right above my ceiling, and then a voice, thin and reedy, whispered through the floorboards: ‘You’ve seen her, haven’t you? The one with the parasol.’

I couldn’t respond. The voice went on: ‘She was waiting for someone. She’s been waiting a hundred years. And now, she’s found you.’ I wanted to scream, but my throat was tight, and the only thing I could do was pull the covers over my head and pray for morning.

Morning came, and I told my mother about the voice. She laughed, calling it the old house settling. My father said it was just the wind. But Leo saw my face and fell silent. That night, I found him awake, his eyes wide. ‘I saw her too,’ he whispered. ‘In the bathroom mirror. She was just standing there, holding that stupid umbrella.’ We both knew we weren’t imagining it. The house was full of presences, and they were growing stronger.

A week later, the scratching returned, but this time it was accompanied by a thumping, as if something heavy was being dragged across the attic floor. I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed a flashlight and crept up the narrow attic stairs, my heart hammering in my chest. The attic was a mess of old trunks, dusty furniture, and forgotten memories. And there, in the center, stood the woman with the parasol. But now, she wasn’t alone. There was a man in a black suit and a top hat, his face a blur of features I couldn’t fix on. The woman pointed at me with her gloved hand, and the man turned. I saw his mouth open, and the air grew thick, and my vision swam.

The next thing I knew, I was on the attic floor, my head throbbing. The attic was empty, but I noticed something odd: a small, ornate box, carved with strange symbols, tucked behind a broken chair. I opened it, and inside was a photograph of a young woman holding a parasol, and a man in a top hat, their faces smiling as if they were alive. On the back, in faded ink, was written: ‘Our eternal summer, 1923.’

I ran downstairs and showed the box to Leo. He paled. ‘That’s the family that built this house. They all died in a fire, same day their daughter got married.’ We looked up the story online. The daughter, the bride, had died wearing her mother’s black lace parasol. And the groom? They said he disappeared, never found. But when I looked at the photo longer, I realized the man in the top hat was the same man I had seen years ago in my old house, staring at me as I woke. And the woman with the parasol was the same woman who now haunted this one.

I don’t know why they chose us. Maybe they were searching for something, or someone, lost in time. But that night, as I tried to sleep, I heard the scratching again, and this time, it came from inside my bedroom wall. I pressed my ear to the wood, and I could hear a whisper, like dry leaves: ‘We are always here. We will always be here.’

We moved out at the end of summer. I never spoke of it again. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see that attic, and the parasol, and the man in the top hat. And I wonder if they’re still waiting, patient as death, for another child to wake and see them just once more.